


Rethinking Strategy

by Apollo_Xandos



Series: Phoenician Series [4]
Category: Alexander Trilogy - Mary Renault, Alexander the Great historical, Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: M/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21629224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apollo_Xandos/pseuds/Apollo_Xandos
Summary: Set during Alexander’s siege of Tyre, about 6 months after events in “Making Amends.”  (Coda to the Phoenician Trilogy)
Relationships: Alexander/Hephaistion, Alexandros III of Macedon | Alexander the Great & Hephaistion of Macedon
Series: Phoenician Series [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558927
Comments: 38
Kudos: 69





	1. Fire Boat

**Author's Note:**

> There’s some politics and military here, but it’s really about what’s going on in between battles, and story behind Alexander’s acquisition of a navy to defeat Tyre, as well as Alexander starting to think about the long-term.

Goddamn stupid arrogant Tyrian _pigs_.

No, that was too good for them. Pigs were smart. The Tyrians weren’t. If they were smart, they’d have opened their city when he’d first asked. They’d seen how he’d handled Byblos and Sidon: with friendship and leniency. The other cities and towns in the region had surrendered too, with equally friendly terms.

It was just fucking _Tyre_. For months now, Tyre’s stubbornness had mired him here on the coast.

Alexander threw his helmet onto the beach. It rolled away, red crest and white plumes spinning like a deranged bird.

Behind him on the mole, both his siege towers were burning, oil-black smoke surging ugly into a blue summer sky, framing the island of Tyre neatly between. Men milled, trying to dig a fire break to contain the blaze, but the mole was mostly logs and stone, and logs burned well, at least those not soaked by sea water. Opportunistic Tyrian boats attacked the mole edges, undermining his men’s salvage work. If half the mole was still there by tomorrow, Alexander would consider himself lucky.

He was covered in soot from leading the attempt to snuff the flames before they’d consumed the wooden structures, but the fire ship had been too full of oil, and had too thoroughly splattered the towers. Men who got close risked being singed, and Alexander had finally called a halt.

Now, the men around him on the beach kept their distance as if he might splatter fire the same as the boat, even those who’d known him longest, such as Perdikkas and Ptolemy. Parmenion was still in Damascus, and Krateros was off, again, on an inland mission. Philotas alone tried to talk to him, probably relying on greater age and his status as the Old Man’s eldest. “I don’t think the mole is working the way you anticipated,” he said. “Maybe it’s time to think about a navy?”

“I’ve _been_ thinking about a navy, you fucking idiot!” Alexander rounded on him, and instinctively, Philotas pulled back. “But boats don’t appear magically like Myrmiddons from dragon teeth, and they can’t be built overnight. Hephaistion’s working on it.”

Philotas jerked up his chin and breathed out, but didn’t reply. Alexander knew he still smarted over not getting garrison command of Sidon.

Alexander didn’t care. He paced along the shore, the sea a regular wash against grainy sand while his men splashed in ordered groups under the command of officers, trying to protect as much of the mole as they could. Beyond, Tyrian boats sailed unopposed and arrogant. “They’ve earned their fate,” Alexander muttered. “They murdered heralds. They claim Herakles as their protector, but have angered Hermes, and Dionysos. It won’t go well for them.”

Spinning abruptly, he approached his waiting officers again. “Philotas, you’re in charge for the moment. Start widening the mole to twice what it was.”

“What? _Why_?”

His rage at the Tyrians found a new target. “Are you questioning me?”

“We need boats, not a bigger fucking mole!”

Teeth grinding, Alexander took a deep breath, then stepped forward to jab Philotas in the chest with a finger. “I’ll get boats. You widen that goddamn mole.” Turning, he took his iron helmet from Alketis, Perdikkas’s brother and lieutenant, who’d picked it up from where he’d thrown it. He shoved the helm against Philotas’s cuirass-covered belly. “Take that, and my cloak.” He unfastened it to toss over Philotas’s shoulder. “Give me yours. I don’t want the Tyrians to realize I’m not in camp.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Sidon.”

“Now?” Ptolemy asked. “The sun is almost behind Tyre. By the time we get together a full company to ride for Sidon, it’ll be near dark, even in summer. We control the roads, but the locals are taking advantage of the situation.” In fact, part of why Krateros wasn’t at the siege owed to a need to make examples of packs of enterprising nomadic herders who’d taken up a side job in banditry. “They’d love to get a hold of the damn king. They’ll take bids for you from us and Tyre both.”

“I’m not waiting for a full company, and they won’t know I’m the king.” He lifted the helmet Philotas had handed him to fit it over his head. The black-and-white crest was known, but wouldn’t be mistaken for his own distinctive red. It wasn’t the first time he’d ridden incognito.

“It’s still too dangerous,” Perdikkas said, agreeing with Ptolemy. “They don’t have to realize you’re the king. They’re just looking for hostages, and Philotas would do equally as well.”

“You don’t have to go yourself,” Philotas added. “Send a courier, if you want a report from Hephaistion.” He barely kept the name from being a sneer. “Or send for him to come here. It’s not like he hasn’t been south already a time or four. And stayed overnight.”

Ignoring the insinuation, Alexander eyed all of them. They had a point. As much as he disliked admitting it, going north with anything less than a full company was dangerous. But he needed to get away from here, away from the burning towers of his failure, away where he could think, reassess. And he needed to talk to Hephaistion—not just to hear where arrangements stood for assembling a counter-fleet, but because he needed his lover’s less intense temperament to balance his churning rage.

“I’m going myself.” He spoke decisively and didn’t give anybody time to object. “Ptolemy, stay with Philotas. You, Kleitos, and Nikanor will assist in the rebuild, Sitalkes and Menes can oversee protection for the builders with Cretan archers, Thracian and the Agrianan peltasts. I want men out after timber and stone before first light so that when the sun rises, the watchers on Tyre’s walls will see us back at it. There’s nothing more demoralizing to the enemy than realizing you won’t back down.” He tapped the side of his borrowed bronze helmet. “Alpha-level head fuck. You win before you step on the damn field, or you’ll get your ass handed to you.”

He made a gesture to Perdikkas. “You’re with me. Get Admetos and two _dekades_ of Hypaspists. We ride in half an hour. And send a fast rider ahead to warn Hephaistion we’re on the way.”

With a lift of the chin, Perdikkas trotted off.

While he waited, Alexander paced, consulting with Philotas on plans to expand the mole. “Fucking idiots” became his litany. “Why didn’t they just fucking surrender?”

This siege was a waste of his precious time and a waste of even more precious men on a tangential campaign. Tyre would fall. Alexander couldn’t allow anything less. But Tyre’s history made her think herself invincible, as had other cities who’d faced either his father or himself, to their eventual collapse. Pydna, Methone, Potidaia, Amphipolis, Thebes, even Halikarnassos—not to mention a host of smaller foundations in Thrace and Illyria. Pride made some men admirable; others, it made merely foolish.

Tyre would learn that. And Carthage, who was helping her mother city. He wouldn’t forget it. Tyre might have engineers who Alexander envied, but they were still no match for his own. It helped that the cities around Tyre resented her arrogant supremacy, including other Phoenician foundations, which had driven Sidon and Byblos to side with him. That left Tyre increasingly isolated, and soon, she’d learn the folly of her hubris.

It was slightly more than half an hour before his escort was assembled, then they rode north. Despite all the concerns, the ride was uneventful. And Perdikkas had made good on his orders. By the time they arrived after sunset, Hephaistion’s own Hypaspists were waiting at the southern gates to take Alexander straight to the palace, a part of which Hephaistion had turned into his personal headquarters.

The new king of Sidon, Abdalonymos, owed his position to Hephaistion and Alexander, so he was gracious with space for the king’s guard, and solicitous of the king upon his arrival, providing cool water and dates for quick refreshment. Alexander greeted the old man with due ceremony, but broke away as soon as was seemly, trailed by his men, in order to find Hephaistion’s office. His friend waited in the glow of several many-wicked lamps at the end of an organizational table, strewn with maps and other documents. His curly hair was a mess from running fingers through it. Striding forward, he embraced Alexander, but in public, made it brief, kissing both his cheeks in greeting. As angry as Alexander had been all day, he felt the tension bleed out at Hephaistion’s mere touch. Yet as he pulled away, the first words out of his mouth were, “Do you have my ships?”

Hephaistion’s heavy brows lifted. “Good to see you, too.” He stepped away, and Alexander studied his face. They’d never been apart this long. Even with the occasional rendezvous, for the past six months, they’d operated in different arenas. Alexander thought it had benefited Hephaistion, who held himself taller, and his face had been pared down with the knife of responsibility to lines more regal. This was the garrison commander, not his rakehell _Hypaspistes Oktopos_ with the easy smile. Yet Alexander longed for that pure-mischief grin he recalled so well.

“You know I miss you every day,” he admitted. “But do you have my ships?”

“Yes, I have your goddamn ships. Some are in the harbor already. The rest are on the way. The Persian fleet is less than half what it was when you left me here.”

Alexander clapped his shoulder. “That’s what I wanted to hear. I knew you manage it.”

“Well, Abdalonymos had something to do with it, too—”

“And I’ll thank him appropriately, but I asked you to get me a navy, and you did. How many ships do I have?”

“Eighty from Phoenicia, and”—he held up a finger—“the Ionians are sending twenty-three more. That’s over a hundred.”

Alexander wanted to shout and pump a fist in the hair, but refrained with his attendants looking on. If it wasn’t a match for Tyre and the Carthaginians, it was enough to protect his mole.

“Oh, I’m not done.” Hephaistion dug around on his desk covered by maps, retrieving a roll of papyrus. “I made a little visit to the King of Cyprus.” He handed over the roll, which Alexander pulled open, reading quickly.

“ _A hundred and twenty triremes_?” he said, jaw dropping to look up at Hephaistion. “What did you promise him?”

“Nothing more than what you’ve already shown. You can beat the Persians. He wanted to be on the winning side.” One side of his mouth quirked up, and whatever his matter-of-fact tone, Alexander knew him quite pleased with himself.

And he damn well should be. Alexander engulfed him in a crushing hug. “You charming bastard! You could talk a toddler into giving you all his honey cakes! I love you! Two hundred and twenty-three ships!”

Hephaistion was laughing in Alexander’s embrace. “Happy?”

Alexander pushed him back, then turned to his escort of Bodyguards, as well as Perdikkas and Admetos. “Did you hear that? Two hundred and twenty-three ships! This man is a magician! Tyre’s as good as beaten.”

“You do still have to, you know, actually take the city?” Perdikkas pointed out, but he grinned as he said it, and gave Hephaistion a thumbs-up.

“This calls for a celebration.” Alexander threw an arm around Hephaistion. “Have Abdalonymos set his best table for dinner, and include musicians for a dance!” Or three. Or ten. He shot his friend a wide grin. As much confidence as he’d had in Hephaistion’s abilities, this went beyond his best hopes. Hephaistion had outdone himself. Anyone who tried, henceforth, to argue that Hephaistion had advanced purely on sentiment had to reckon with this showing. “You’re fucking amazing.” He meant every word.

Hephaistion was blushing.

Dinner was rambunctious, reflecting Alexander’s mood. Not to mention, here, he could safely get drunk. During a siege, with the tricky Tyrians, he rarely indulged in more than a glass or two of well-watered wine with dinner, taken over his planning table, not at symposium.

Yet he’d needed this release. He shared a couch with Hephaistion, enjoying the touch of his lover’s skin, which he rarely got now. He made bad jokes and let Abdalonymos try to teach him to say the names of the dishes in Aramaic, which all seemed to have far too many consonants and that damn shhh-sound he couldn’t enunciate correctly. Every time he tried, Hephaistion would just laugh. “You sound like a drunk snake.”

“Fuck you, asshat!”

Dark eyes twinkling, Hephaistion grinned, mouthing, “Later.”

Even in jest, the promise caused a flexing bob of interest under Alexander’s linen wrap. Hephaistion, who’d been watching, noted it, and his grin widened. He leaned close enough to speak softly and still be heard over the roar of party conversation. “Victory fucking.”

Alexander knew at least some of his good mood owed to being able to hear that teasing voice again. Like Hephaistion’s first embrace, it undid the tension from every vertebra in his backbone until he was as fluid as the wine in his cup. He lolled back against his lover’s chest. “You’re pretty damn sloshed,” Hephaistion warned. “Take it easy or you’ll go to sleep on me later. I was serious about the victory fucking. You owe me.”

Alexander tipped his head back, chin up, and grinned. “You’ll get your prize. Kiss me.”

Hephaistion’s expression altered to something slightly annoyed. “We’re in public, and you’re drunk. I’ll kiss you later.”

Alexander realized he was making a scene and shouldn’t, for the sake of Hephaistion’s authority. Pushing himself up to sit on the couch edge, he called out, “Music! I want to dance!”

Perdikkas eyed him from the next couch. “Your mood is completely transverse this morning’s.”

“I have a navy. Tyre can’t stand.”

“Hope Carthage doesn’t send a bigger navy.”

“They would’ve already, if they were going to.” Alexander levered himself up as a trio of musicians with a double flute, drum, and castanets readied for a rousing tune.

The king called for his friends and guards to join him on the floor. Quite a few were unsteady on their feet, and Alexander wondered what the watching Phoenicians thought of a king leading a line dance? He’d been told that, in Persia, men danced for Darius; Darius didn’t dance himself.

Maybe that was the Great King’s problem. Men would fight harder for you if you danced with them.

They spent a while at it, weaving in circles, or showing off wild leaps and dips. Yet as midnight passed, his men wilted. It was time for bed. If Alexander didn’t intend to return to Tyre tomorrow, between the long ride and the wine and the dancing, he was exhausted. So was his company, even if pride goaded them to keep up with their king. Taking pity on Abdalonymos’s people as an excuse, Alexander announced, “We should get some sleep. Full day tomorrow.”

“Like you’re gonna sleep any time soon.” Perdikkas elbowed him. If Alexander knew the words meant as a tease, it still came out a bit too loudly from drink. More than one head swiveled towards Hephaistion.

“Enough,” Alexander snapped. Despite the fact he’d begged Hephaistion for a kiss in front of everybody just two hours ago, his diplomatic sense had been revived by exertion. He needed to protect his friend’s public authority. “I’m tired. I’m going to _sleep_.”

Hephaistion broke in with his usual smooth charm. “I’ve had rooms prepared for everyone, including me. The king will have my own suite, of course.”

No one remarked on that, though Alexander suspected a few wondered if Hephaistion would, in fact, use the room he’d set aside for himself. Of course he wouldn’t, or not all night, but it would’ve been much easier to arrange if Perdikkas hadn’t called attention to it. Alexander’s prior good mood soured, and he sank back into the sulk he’d felt on the ride here.

Hephaistion paced the king up the staircase and led him and his officers down the hallway to the rooms that he’d occupied since his assignment here, in charge of the Macedonian garrison. The suite was the second best in the Sidonian palace. King Abdalonymos had the best, of course, and were Darius visiting, he’d no doubt have demanded them. Yet Alexander refused to turn the old man out of his bed.

Now, under cover of sandaled feet scruffing on wooden boards, Hephaistion muttered, “Leave the south window open.”

Alexander shot him a glance, but there was no time to reply; they’d reached the doorway, and Abdalonymos’s slaves were leading the rest of king’s party to their own rooms. Meanwhile, the Somatophylakes, the king’s guard, pushed into the suite, assessing it quickly, before taking up places to either side of the door. Inside.

“Out,” Alexander told them, not unkindly. They exited with Hephaistion. Nothing was said, but both knew why they were outside, even as Alexander heard Hephaistion’s distinct saunter down the hall to his temporary quarters. Alexander immediately crossed to unlock the south window shutters.

He found a hot bath ready, steaming with sharp scent, and let the waiting slave disrobe him so he could climb in. He half expected Hephaistion to interrupt, as he often did, but not this time. The hot water alone had to seep out his anxieties.

He stayed until the bath cooled, then dried and returned to the bedroom in a linen robe. Still no Hephaistion. He lay down on the bed, cushions cool from sea breezes. The Palestinian coast chilled significantly at night, even in summer. He tried to stay awake, but was tired, and relaxed after the bath. Where was Hephaistion?

Inevitably, he fell asleep, waiting.


	2. Victory Fucking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As per the chapter title, and the overall story warnings, this is the most graphic section, but there's a lot of other stuff going on. Unlike some of my stuff, it's not PWP.

It was hard-dark when a hand shook Alexander awake. Startled, he surged up, knife in hand, a habit from storing it under his pillow. The one waking him had known that, swaying away to avoid the strike. “It’s me.” Hephaistion, of course.

“I waited for you.”

“I had a lot of things to finish before I could retire.”

Alexander didn’t laugh. “Welcome to my world.”

“I knew about your world.”

Reaching in the dimness, he found Hephaistion’s shoulders, pulling him down. “You knew _part_ of my world. Now, you know more.” He kissed him, letting his hand slide down to his lover’s groin, pulling his erection to attention. “You want your victory fuck?” Alexander muttered. “Where’s the strap?”

“I wanted it earlier,” Hephaistion confessed. “Now, I’m exhausted. You’re the guest, you got to go to bed early. I had stuff to see to. Can we just do this?”

“A hand-job?”

Alexander’s surprise must have registered in his tone. “You’re not leaving tomorrow,” Hephaistion pointed out.

“No. I plan to stay until the ships are assembled. We’ll sail back together, you and I.”

“That’s what I gathered. So, victory fuck tomorrow. Hand job tonight. I need to prepare anyway.”

Alexander grinned. “For your victory fuck, I thought it was _me_ who needed to prepare.”

“Okay, fine. You can prepare. But tomorrow.”

So it was all tight grip, tongue kisses, and the slide of calloused hands up and down in a steady rhythm. Then Hephaistion pulled away, hand stilling, though he continued to hold Alexander’s cock gently. “I heard about the attack on the towers.”

“From whom?”

“Perdikkas. Do you want to talk?”

Alexander flopped onto his back, which effectively pulled his dick out of Hephaistion’s loose clasp. “What do you want me to say? The mole isn’t working. It’ll take boats.”

“You already knew that. It’s why you had me get you a navy.”

Alexander still stared upwards into the dim. “I covered all the blinds, but hoped I wouldn’t need it. I thought the mole would work.”

Hephaistion scooted down next to him, arm slung across his chest. “As you said, you covered all the blinds. The mole may not be working, but you’ve got your back-up navy. And the mole distracted them for a while. You didn’t know it wouldn’t work until you tried. It was still smart tactics.”

Head turned, Alexander studied Hephaistion’s face. It was calm, quiet, earnest. This was why he’d needed to come here in person. Not for sex. Hephaistion alone could halt his spiraling judgment against himself and give him perspective. He wasn’t seeking uncritical acquiescence, and Hephaistion had never offered it. Yet he could remind him of the bigger picture. Alexander was no Seer. He couldn’t read the military future, even if his guesses were sometimes uncannily accurate. At other times, they weren’t. Or no more so than any other man’s.

He rolled sideways into his lover’s embrace. “Hold me.” Hephaistion did so. They didn’t speak for a while. Alexander could feel the steady puff of Hephaistion’s breath against his forehead; it was calming. “I need you back,” he whispered. “I need you back, I need _this_. I limp along without you.”

Hephaistion kissed his forehead. “I’m here. But you don’t limp without me. Don’t exaggerate. It’s been hard but…maybe good.”

Alexander pulled away to study his lover’s face. He wanted to argue, but he’d been thinking something similar himself. “How so?”

Hephaistion tensed. “I’m not saying I don’t want to be with you.”

“I didn’t assume that. I was just curious. So why did you say that?”

“This time without you has reminded me of how much I love and miss you.”

“Blah-blah. You’re flattering me.”

“I’m not!” Hephaistion appeared both angry and hurt.

“I’m sorry.” Alexander was immediately contrite, stroking Hephaistion’s chest absently, ruffling the twin fans of hair over his pecs. “You know I miss you horribly, too. I just assumed it was more than that.”

Hephaistion hesitated, then admitted, “It is. When we’re together all the time, we get on each other’s nerves, and I take you for granted. It’s not just missing you, but I forget my lover is the fucking _king_. Even while I don’t.” He seemed to be puzzling over how to explain. “It’s weird. When I was sleeping in your tent every night, you were still king, but I never thought of you that way. Here in Sidon, I’m reminded every damn day of who you really are, and the responsibility of being your representative. At first, I found it fucking annoying, but then it started to sink in. To me, you’re Alekos. To them, you’re _Alexander_.”

“Please don’t make me Alexander. I need to be your Alekos.” He was tense.

Hephaistion realized it and smiled, covering and stilling Alexander’s hand on his chest, then lifting it to kiss the knuckles. “Don’t worry. I need you to be my Alekos, as well. But it’s been … useful … to live in a world without you right beside me. It’s reminded me of who you are to _me_.” He frowned. “I’m not sure this makes much sense. I’m not sure I even know what I’m trying to say.” The dark eyes shifted until they caught Alexander’s. “Just writing to you, not talking…. It’s different, but I like it. I like being near you more, but getting to read your thoughts is … compensation? A different way of knowing you, _agapete_.”

Alexander propped himself on an elbow to stare down at his lover. “I should have given you better assignments before this, even if away from me.”

“I didn’t want any, nor was I ready.”

“Bullshit. You’ve _been_ ready, Phaistonaki. I was just selfish, keeping you by me. What you did here surprised even me, and I knew what you could do. I still underestimated you. You needed to be away to show me what I’d only half recognized. After this? Nobody can dismiss you. Your navy will save my siege.” He stroked Hephaistion’s cheek with a thumb. “I love you. And now, the rest of them will see what I’ve always known. You’re fucking brilliant.”

Hephaistion blushed. It was rare enough to make Alexander grin and kiss him quickly. Then he rolled up to sit, pulling Hephaistion after so they were face-to-face. Alexander maneuvered his legs over Hephaistion’s, bringing them groin-to-groin.

Sometimes—a lot of the time—he wanted to be inside. It filled a deep, heart-need to occupy his lover, but not like a conquering army. It was never forced, only invited. He preferred that too, with cities. He’d much rather be invited in than to lay a siege. On rarer occasions, he wanted Hephaistion inside him.

But neither of those had been the first way they’d made love. The first had been this: dick against dick, soft-soft skin in friction, their hands laced together, engulfing. He loved seeing their physical differences: his own slick purple to his lover’s dark brown, his finely arched but shorter to Hephaistion’s long, thick weight. They knew this love-making best. It was, in many ways, the default. Hephaistion’s hand on one side, his on the other, fingers laced. Up and down, up and down, sometimes a pause, sometimes a teasing slap of one against the other, sweet spot to sweet spot. Gasps, occasional laughter.

Easy. Familiar. Leaning forward in the space between, they locked mouths, tongues sawing like the cock friction below. They could speed up or slow down. They didn’t talk a lot, didn’t need to. Alexander was sinking inside himself, chasing the rising sensations. Sometimes he’d look up at Hephaistion’s face. His lover’s eyes were closed, chasing the same.

After a while, Alexander murmured, “How close?”

“Midway. You?”

“Same.”

After so many years, they could time it well. To raise the stakes, Alexander scooted a little closer, reaching with his free hand to fondle Hephaistion’s balls, then rub the raised line behind. Hephaistion teased Alexander’s left nipple, making him suck in breath. This dance required patience. Requests for “faster,” or “harder,” or “kiss me,” or even just, “yes, yes,” filled the darkness above the distant wash of the sea. The low-voiced directives were eagerly complied with. Alexander adored the honesty they had after so long.

It was finally getting intense. Soft breathing had become gasps punctuated with, “Oh, god,” and “Harder, tighter,” and “Rub all over the head.” They weren’t kissing now but had pressed forehead to forehead. It was a little awkward, but intimate. He could hear Hephaistion’s breath coming like a blacksmith’s bellows.

Then he yelled, “I’m there, I’m there!”

Alexander felt the other cock spasm and spit. His own followed, rolling contractions dragging a whine from him and ending in bursts of seed, mixing with Hephaistion’s all over their combined grip. He gathered it in his free hand to rub it over both their deflating cocks, combining their essence.

Their seed, their selves, their very creative force. They might never make another human life, but as Plato had said, they were creating ideas. They’d come together to birth an empire. He’d started a siege and Hephaistion was going to finish it. Together. They were stronger together.

He collapsed against Hephaistion, head on his lover’s shoulder as they breathed down from climax. “I have missed you so damn much,” he muttered. “I know I already said it, but—"

“Same here.”

“This shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t. But I need it. Touch. I need to hear you breathe. I need your arms around me. I need to hear you spill. It’s madness.”

“No.” He felt Hephaistion kiss his temple, then roll onto his side and offer arms for Alexander to climb into. They cuddled, however messy. “We’re not just minds, Alekos. Body, mind, and soul. I wait every afternoon for a letter from you. I read it as soon as it arrives. I love that exchange. I think it sharpens some aspects of who we are together, but it’s a consolation. It’s not all of who we are together. I’m addicted to your letters because I can’t see or touch you. It’s not the sex. I miss that too, but it’s everything _else_. Your laugh, your glance, your voice, your simple proximity. Your warmth. It’s summer, but I’m cold here, in Sidon.”

Alexander raised himself to look down at Hephaistion. The dark eyes were bleak, like winter. “I’m cold, too.” He kissed him.

They cleaned up and slept.

The next day, Alexander consulted with Sidon’s new king, Abdalonymos, as well as received messengers from Byblos. For all of it, Hephaistion remained at his right elbow, passing reports, whispering names of petitioners in his ear, and generally being indispensable. He discovered the Sidonians and Babylonians appreciated this attention, which not only encouraged their naval cooperation, but led to an evening discussions of trade over dinner.

Alexander hadn’t given a lot of thought to trade. It wasn’t battle. Trade held no glory. Homer had sung of Achilles, not Atenor, some merchant from Rhodes. His father had talked often of trade, but Alexander had ignored it. Old Man Talk.

Now, listening to the Phoenicians, ancient trade masters, he began to reconsider. Hephaistion was nodding along, too, as the Sidonian king proposed expanded trade and lower tariffs, plus the importance of maintaining regularized weights and measures, and even a universal currency exchange rate based on an imperial standard. “The easier it is to exchange goods without crushing taxes or too many complications,” Abdalonymos was saying, “the more wealth is distributed throughout your empire, not just centralized in the capital or other big cities. Centralized authority is good for economies, but centralized trade control is bad.”

Alexander wasn’t sure if that were true, or if the Phoenician king was just trying to pull the wool over his eyes. He glanced at Hephaistion, hoping for confirmation, but his friend only smiled. “Yet a centralized government still needs to maintain…awareness of trade deals,” Hephaistion said.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Abdalonymos agreed. “Just not exercise undue regularization.”

“Not _undue_ ,” Hephaistion agreed.

Alexander was fairly sure he was listening in on something Abdalonymos and Hephaistion had been discussing, repeatedly, before tonight.

“It might be a good idea,” Hephaistion suggested, turning to Alexander “while we wait for the fleet to assemble, to travel inland and talk to the desert merchants who bring incense and other goods from southern Arabia.”

Frowning, Alexander allowed, “It might be.” He put stress on “might.”

Later, he asked, “Are you trying to get me out of town by suggesting that we go talk to the desert people?”

“You’re easily bored,” Hephaistion answered. “You need something to do, so I suggested something to do while we wait. Arabian trade without all the middle-men would help Greece.” His voice was tight as he pushed into Alexander from behind. Alexander pushed back, enjoying the friction on his sphincter. “No kingdom survives long on conquest alone. But are we going to talk about trade _right now_?”

Alexander glanced over his shoulder where he was propped on elbows and knees. “Am I your empire to conquer?”

“That’s nonsensical and a non sequitur. Shut up and let me concentrate. Or tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Alexander obeyed. But then Hephaistion called him bossy, though it gave them both a splendid orgasm, so perhaps he shouldn’t complain.

Their third night together, they were sated enough for it to take a while, their bodies not driving them to meet a need. Passion had cooled to warm skin and teasing strokes. Enclosing and being enclosed. It was the sort of communion Alexander liked best. Little talk but a lot of verbal signals, sometimes a word, sometimes just sounds. It went on a while: slick slide of Alexander’s dick deep in Hephaistion.

He spilled first, Hephastion following with a little hand help. Then they flopped sideways, Hephaistion still in Alexander’s embrace. “How long will it take to ready a party to travel inland?”

“I’ve been working on it.” Hephaistion turned over. “Day after tomorrow at dawn. I was hoping for tomorrow, but an extra day was needed for sufficient armed escort.”

Alexander studied him in the dark. After that first night’s shenanigans, thanks to Perdikkas, they’d been able to retire since without any need for Hephaistion to climb through windows. Alexander smiled. “I should just let your run my appointment book.”

“That might be easier,” Hephaistion agreed.

Laughing, Alexander buried his face against Hephaistion’s chest. “Fine. You’re my temporary secretary."


	3. An Inland Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trade might actually be a thing kings want to pay attention to.

So, at Hephaistion and Abdalonymos’s suggestion, Alexander headed inland to meet the nomads and discuss trade. Riding out, he went through Damascus to consult with Parmenion and visit the royal women. The Queen Mother Sisygambis was surprised but pleased to see him. He wasn’t sure why she was fond of him, given that he’d defeated her son in combat, but almost from the start, they’d gotten along, even with a language barrier. At first, he’d been wary, assuming she was doing whatever she needed to, in order to preserve her family’s lives. Perhaps even now she was oiling him up to be fried. Yet it was in such moments as this, when he walked unannounced into the cool garden of the palace at Damascus to find her telling stories to her grandchildren, and she looked up, her whole face brightening …at such moments, he knew her affection was real.

“Drod, Mater.” Hello, Mother. He’d learned the Persian words.

She patted the little boy’s leg, scooting him off her lap, then rose to embrace Alexander, something only a male family member would receive. She could have flattered him without hugging him. He didn’t make any move to touch the two girls but did pick up the boy to prop him on his hip. Grinning, Ochus said, in tolerable Greek, “How are you, Uncle?”

Alexander ruffled his dark hair. “I am well. How are you, Ochus?”

Like all children, Ochus took the question at face value. “I am hungry!” It made Alexander laugh.

Setting him back down, he pushed him gently towards his sisters. “Can you take him for food?” He wasn’t sure if the girls understood all the words, but they seemed to get the gist. The eldest took his hand and led him out, the younger following. It was a bit disconcerting for him to realize the eldest was already taller than he was.

Then he sat down with Sisygambis for a visit, with the help of a eunuch translator. She had servants bring cool water flavored with sumac and honey. It was a strange drink, but he liked it. Then again, he’d discovered he liked most Persian food with their exotic spices and unexpected blend of sweet and savory.

When he explained what had brought him inland despite a siege going on, Sisygambis made what he’d come to recognize as a purely Persian gesture of approval, covering one of her eyes with four fingers. He’d been told it meant, “On my eye,” but in intent was closer to, “Very good,” or “From the bottom of my heart.”

Through the translator, she said, “You are thinking to the future. A wise king makes a beautiful rug of his empire with threads of many colors, and the best ones to hook those threads are the merchants. They bring goods back and forth across the lands, so those living in one place hear about those from another, meet them, and come to recognize them as friends. A smile is a smile is a smile, whatever the shape of the face that makes it. Also, merchants travel, they talk to people, they see things. You should hire some to bring you information.”

“Hire merchant spies?”

“Not spies in the way you mean.” She paused, as if pondering, then said, “Observers. They will see and hear things the satraps will not, or that your satraps may not want to pass on to you. Yet they may also see things that those like us, who live in palaces, don’t see—but need to know.”

Her lips made a mou, then she continued, “Even when you are not warring, you will want to travel about, not remain distant and locked away. That is why the Babylonians, and before them, the Assyrians, fell. They stayed in their palaces, coming out only to make war. We Persians were wiser. Whether at war or in peace, we travel our lands, meet with our governors and overseers. We _listen_.” She tapped one ear.

“So do I,” he replied. “I march with my men, work with them, eat with them and talk around their fires. Yet you’ve fussed at me for doing that.”

She cut a hand back and forth in disapproval. “Of course you should listen, my son. That is a wise thing. But you are not a pig. You should not climb into the pen and root with them! Show more dignity. Men need dignity in their king.”

“I don’t disagree, about dignity, but how we define it, and how your people define it is a little different, Mater.”

“Yet if you should win these wars, will we not also be your people?”

The question pulled him up short and he just stared at her for a moment, before blurting out, “Of course you will be.”

“Then you’ll need to think on what we want in a king too, won’t you?”

Uncomfortable, he turned the conversation to lighter topics, but what she’d said hit him like an arrow in the chest. He’d been so focused on beating Darius, he hadn’t thought much about what came after.

But she was thinking about it. And so had Abdalonymous, back in Sindon, suggesting lighter tariffs to promote large-scale economic stability.

If he won—no, _when_ he won—he was going to have to consider how to rule what he’d won. He found this notion slightly alarming.

Leaving Sisygambis, he made his way to Barsine’s apartments, where she was waiting for him, having been alerted that he was in the city. Alexander was judicious in performing his duty as king to make heirs. It wasn’t so bad. He always enjoyed his conversations with her, for which he didn’t need a translator.

The next morning, their party was back on the road.

“You spent the night with Barsine.” Hephaistion rode beside Alexander in the middle of the company for protection. If still masquerading as Philotas, Alexander wasn’t exposing himself unnecessarily. The Sidonians had cultivated relationships with the desert nomads, but it was well known that those nomads would be happy to raid instead of trade if a caravan or delegation didn’t appear to be well armed.

“I thought we were past this.”

“We are. Mostly. But the sex?”

“What about it?” Alexander shot back.

“It’s all right?”

“It’s fine. It’s not like with you, but however much I prefer venison, a little pork now and then isn’t bad.”

Hephaistion laughed at the pun. “I suppose I’ll have to eat my share eventually.”

“I _would_ like to honor your sons in my Pages some day.” This was offered laconically.

“They could call you ‘uncle.’”

“They’d better not when they’re on duty. My father wouldn’t even let me call him ‘father’ when I was on duty.” Yet Hephaistion’s joke reminded him of the honorary title little Ochus had given him: “Uncle.” A new idea bloomed in his mind. “I’m going to have to marry Darius’s eldest daughter. I could give you the younger, so calling me ‘uncle’ would be true instead of honorary.”

Hephaistion glanced over sharply. “You’d give me a _princess_?”

“Our children could be cousins. Would that make bedding a girl easier?”

Hephaistion grinned, old, familiar, and wild. “Imagine! _My_ sons, cousins to the next king of Persia! And to think all I had to do was offer you an apple all those years ago.”

“It was a good apple.”

Leaning across between them, Hephaistion slapped him on a bare knee.

The second day from Damascus, they reached a town called Ammon. Their chief guides—the two brothers who’d helped Hephaistion find Sidon’s new king—explained the city had once been the capital of a people called the Ammonites. Later, it was conquered by a succession of empires, most recently the Persians. Set along the old King’s Highway, it was a straight shot from Damascus, and Alexander thought it a good location for his planned Arabic trade. He might be no expert on economics, but surely merchants appreciated good roads and defensible positions no less than armies. He instructed the brothers to talk to the locals about building it up with a proper Greek-style market, as well as storehouses and fortifications. He’d have Parmenion send a hundred talents from Damascus. The area was full of good limestone for building, and Alexander could see why it had been a capital once, in the time of small kingdoms. Today, it would make an excellent outpost on the edge of the Great Desert.

Alexander’s party met with the Arabs at their camp just outside the city. The sprawl of tents was more extensive than he’d expected, busy and wonderfully exotic with brightly striped pavilions and the scent of unknown cooking spices in the air. And camels. Lots of camels. Alexander had seen camels before, but just a few. Now, they were everywhere. The Sidonians had warned the Greeks not to ride their horses, as only horses raised among camels would tolerate the beasts. Alexander wasn’t sure he blamed them; camels were bizarre with their skinny legs and big bodies and odd heads. The eyes, especially, were unnerving: near the crown, long-lashed, and _beady_. Alexander didn’t have a better term. They watched the Greek and Phoenician party pass with expressions of bored disdain. “I don’t like them,” he muttered to the Sidonian brothers.

“Nobody likes them except the People of the Camel. But they’re fast, and useful. Horses need too much water, for the desert.”

No doubt true, and the king was pragmatic enough to recognize it, but he couldn’t bury his instinctive loathing. It wasn’t just their foreignness. He’d seen a lot of foreign things, from clothes to food to architecture to animals, and he’d found many of them interesting, even appealing.

But not fucking camels.

The Arabs themselves, however, he found much more appealing. Dressed in long tunics with outer wraps decorated in bright stripes like their tents, they were gregarious and laughed easily. “They seem friendly,” he muttered to Batnoam, the shorter of the two brothers. Hephaistion had told him the name meant “son of charm” in Phoenician—a perfect name for a trader.

“Of course they are,” Batnoam said now. “That’s their job. Don’t assume they like you. They just want you to think they do. And be careful. They know more languages than they usually admit to knowing.”

Alexander was starting to understand why Hephaistion had trusted the brothers when choosing a king for Sidon. “So they’re clever, charming con artists.”

“Not exactly.” Alexander thought Batnoam might be concealing affront. After all, he was a merchant too. “Trade is … a game. We all want the best deal we can make, so there are certain fictions. We know they’re fictions, but we play along. After a while, you make connections with those you trust, and at least some of the fictions disappear. I like Ali, the trader we’re meeting. I think you will, as well. He’s smart, and in my experience, honest. He’s looking for a profit, but it’s a fair profit. His goods are what he says they are. If he promises top-rate ebony, myrrh, or pearls, that’s what he delivers. He won’t pass off shoddy merchandise and hope you won’t know the difference. It’s his good name at stake. I wouldn’t have set up a meeting with him for you otherwise.”

“So he’ll be sure I get what I pay for.”

“Exactly. That said, he’s dealing with you, not me, so at the outset, don’t give away the store. He’d look down on you, if you did. Begin as we discussed. You’re not the king, just his agent, the general Philotas. I’m quite sure Ali already knows exactly who you are, but how quickly he admits that will tell us a story.”

Alexander found all this “say one thing but mean another” annoying. He preferred a more straightforward negotiation, such as battle, or even intellectual debate. “The longer he waits, the better?”

“No, exactly the opposite. Less veiled negotiation indicates he’s interested in a real deal.” Batnoam cocked his head. “You have an advantage because I’m with you, but I can’t promise he’ll be favorable to you.”

Alexander was grinning. “I need you on my military advisory council.”

“No, thank you!” Batnoam scrunched up his nose in distaste, which made Alexander laugh.

Stepping outside the milling confusion of initial introductions, Alexander took the central chair on his side of the negotiating table. A middle-aged man with a handsome, silver-streaked beard sat down opposite him, the rest of their companies assuming lesser positions. Hephaistion sat on Alexander’s right, the Sidonian brothers on his left, Batnoam, the eldest, closest. Given the striking resemblance, family members of the lead negotiator, Ali, flanked him, as well.

“I’m Philotas,” Alexander began in Greek, which the shorter, but elder, Sidonian translated into Aramaic. “I’m here to negotiate in good faith for King Alexander.”

The man opposite grinned widely. “Actually, _you’re_ Alexander, here to negotiate for yourself.”

It was spoken in heavily accented but grammatically good Greek.

Everyone on Alexander’s side sat back … except Alexander and the Sidonians. Alexander felt Batnoam kick his foot under the table. That must had been faster than even Batnoam had expected. Alexander’s lips curled. “You do your research.”

“Dear king, I am a king among merchants. Researching our trade partners is key to our business. Now, shall we negotiate? Among my people, a man’s good name rests upon his honesty.”

“Among mine, deception is often admired. But I dislike it, personally.”

“Then why pretend to be who you aren’t?”

“I was advised so.” He deliberately didn’t look at the Sidonians.

Ali laughed. “Of course! The old game. I, also, was instructed to address you as ‘Philotas’ until further into our negotiations. Yet I have followed the tales of the young conqueror from Greece: that he is good to friends, but ruthless to enemies. And a good king—of lands or of merchants—must listen to advice, but choose when not to follow it.”

Alexander liked him instantly. “I’m good to friends, but even more, I honor honesty. So yes, I’m Alexander, son of Philip, king of Macedon. And soon, of Persia.”

“I am Ali, son of Hussein, of the Quraysh under the Banu Kinanah. Now we may speak as equals, knowing true names.”

Standing, Alexander reached across the table to offer his right hand, hoping the gesture meant to them what it meant to the Greeks or Persians—that a man held no weapons. Grinning widely, Ali rose to grip it, firm but not crushing. A good handshake. “Man to man, king to king.” He released Ali’s grip to sit back down. “Let’s talk trade then.”


	4. Raids & Ships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyre has no idea what's about to hit them.

“God, you are one fucking, charming _bastard_ ,” Hephaistion told him.

The Sidonians, trailing, seemed slightly in awe. “Ali is among their best negotiators, but you had him eating out of your hand,” the younger brother, Paltibaal, gushed.

Batnoam grinned at his brother. “I didn’t expect him to give up what he knew that fast. But I did suspect the two of you would get along.”

“Both of you did much of the heavy lifting when it came to the offered terms, My chief input was knowledge of prices in Greece.” Alexander cocked his head. “I don’t suppose trade is quite as hard as I thought.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, my lord,” Batnoam warned, if in a friendly tone. “He offered fair terms because I was with you, and he knew I’d recognize if they weren’t. Yet he also offered them because you’re winning. Everyone likes a winner. Plus, you were polite, but not gullible.”

“No different in military matters. Respect your enemy, but don’t be taken in, or arrogant. Tyre is about to find that out. They weren’t respectful, and didn’t take my measure. They’ll be shown as fools for both.”

“We took your measure,” Batnoam remarked.

“You did. It won’t be forgotten.”

The brothers shared a private grin.

“So what do the two of you want in return?” Alexander asked, enjoying their startled expressions.

“What?”

“You heard me. What does your family want, for traveling this far south and providing good advice?”

They shared another glance, then Batnoam chuckled. “Well, we were hoping you might allow us the honor of being the chief negotiators with the nomads henceforth, and attach a modest tariff to trade goods coming from Ammon through Damascus into Phoenicia.”

“Define ‘modest.’”

And negotiations began again. Alexander let Hephaistion handle most of it, as his friend understood the exchange of various coinages better, having been in Sidon a while. Thus, because he’d let Hephaistion take charge, Alexander was free to scan the hills as they approached the city nestled among them, spotting the ambush before the jaws closed.

“ _FORM UP SQUARE_!” he bellowed.

Startled, the men hurried to comply as a company of camels poured down on the road, swirling around them. Though in sight of the walls, the soldiers manning the city gate just watched with apathetic interest, not intervening, even if they knew whose party was under attack. They no doubt assumed the interlopers would be annihilated. No need to explain to superiors.

They’d forgotten who was in charge.

“Merchants inside, soldiers on the perimeter,” Alexander ordered, though the men had mostly figured that out, pushing the Sidonians to the middle. Drawing his sword, Alexander took his place in the outer square at the center. They were horseless against those damn camels, and briefly, he wondered if the Sidonians had devised this, advising them to ditch the horses, until he saw the terror on Sidonian faces.

Alexander had only a sword, but the Hypaspist escort, led by Admetos and Hephaistion with his octopus shield, had spears and _sarissai_ , both. They dug in, points angled out, an emphatic deterrent to the ambushers’ mounted attack. Camels circled in a wild gallop, their riders making lots of noise. They shot arrows, but being relatively small, these had little effect against bronze. He heard a couple men grunt from being struck in unprotected flesh, but nothing was fatal and nobody fell.

Seeing the line hold, the ambushers appeared confused, probably having expected the noise and chaos to scare the enemy into a panic.

“ _Maintain_ ,” Alexander ordered. “Let them wear themselves out. Don’t react to the noise.”

The Hypaspists, well-trained, held spears, sword-wielders like Alexander tucked among them, and at the center, the vulnerable Sidonians. “This has never happened before!” Batnoam wailed. “Trade neutrality is honored!”

Observing the enemy, Alexander had reached two conclusions. First, the ambushers had never fought Macedonians. They were probably used to ambushing merchants with an armed escort of mercenaries who might be counted on to give up their charges if faced with too much opposition. And that led to conclusion number two: these weren’t Ali’s men. They had no idea who they were facing.

Which gave their company a distinct advantage. Speaking in the Macedonian dialect, he ordered his Hypaspists. “Pretend to waiver. Let them get over-confident. Then on my order, take them out. Aim for the camels’ legs.”

The men did exactly as instructed, flinching back, looking side to side as if seeking a way to run. Two made an attempt, but halted to retreat back to the line. One was Hephaistion, with his octopus shield.

Sensing fear, the ambushers closed in, letting their camels come within striking range.

“ _NOW_!” Alexander bellowed. The Hypaspists locked shields, pushing outward briefly, swords swinging low to catch delicate camel legs, slicing tendons or cutting through bone. The beasts screamed in agony, plunging into the sand and spilling their riders. Wounded camels continued to thrash, and a few rolled over their own riders, crushing them. Hypaspists broke formation to begin spearing the bandits even as a new force of camel-riders poured over the slight rise to their south.

“Incoming!” Alexander warned. Hypaspists reformed into a protective square while the ambushed ambushers struggled to retreat. They seemed more terrified of the wave of new attackers than of the Macedonians.

These new riders yipped and yelled, swinging bright curved swords as they drove in among the ambushers, cutting down anybody who’d survived the Hypaspist attack…but sparing the surviving camels, Alexander noted. Among them was a man in the orange, red, and blue stripes worn by Ali at their meeting. Cheered, Alexander motioned his own men forward. “Spare the camels!” he ordered.

It was brief and bloody. He got only two men before it was over. Then he faced Ali on the red-wet sand. “Good to see you standing and fighting,” Ali said from camel-back. His grin was wide, his sword gory, his camel spotted and streaked with blood.

“Who are these people?”

“Our trade rivals. I should have anticipated they might attempt to intervene. As soon as my younger brother told me he’d seen them riding out, we came after.”

“Well-met, Ali!”

“Well-met, Alexander!”

“Do you want any of them alive?”

“We have one already, to return to his clan with our compliments.” He gestured to a young man, wounded, but not badly, struggling in the grip of one of Ali’s riders, who’d dismounted to secure him.

“Kill the rest,” Alexander ordered his Hypaspists.

After, the lone survivor spilled the truth with a little “encouragement.” Ali’s caravan had been followed north, a man in Ali’s own camp, married to a woman of the rival clan, had revealed who Ali was meeting. The ambush had been planned in advance, but exercised quickly. If they’d known who Alexander was, they apparently hadn’t realized who he _was_.

“Our people aren’t used to fighting Greeks,” Ali told Alexander. “They didn’t expect…that.” He gestured to the _dekades_ under Hephaistion’s command, a few of whom had wounds, mostly minor, but all still alive.

“They didn’t expect trained soldiers?”

“No, they didn’t expect that much armor to deflect arrows. We’re trained, too. It’s just a different style; that much bronze in the desert would bake us alive. In any case, this will be useful to me, back home. So in addition to new trade, you’ve given me political leverage. I’ll remember that, should you ever come to Arabia.”

“And by Zeus, I’ll remember that you rode to help, should you ever come to see me in Persia. Be well, Ali. May your gods ride with you.”

“By Athtar, and your gods, I wish you success against the Persians, Alexander.”

They parted after a wrist-to-wrist handclasp. Alexander’s men rode to the gate, where he glared at the guards, but spoke only to the captain. “You and your men watched. Do you know who I am?”

“I know who you are. I’ll worry. _If_ you win against Tyre.”

“Oh, I’ll win. And you forget, I already hold these lands. Ammon doesn’t belong to Tyre. You belong to _me_.”

Before anyone could react, Alexander drew his sword and slit the captain’s throat.

The other guards drew back, apparently fearing he’d execute all of them. He was tempted, but fear was more effective when judicious. “I’ll assume the rest of you were following his orders. But I have the capacity to funnel money into this borderland town, build it up like it was before the Persians or Babylonians. Would you like that? Would you like to be part of the Incense Road and all the wealth that might bring here?”

The men watched, wide-eyed, then one found his courage and said, “Yes. This city was great once, and is resilient like a date palm. It’s beloved by the gods.”

“I agree.” Alexander pointed his sword at him. “You’re captain now. If I hear about any disloyalty to my soldiers or appointed emissaries such as these men”—he indicated the Sidonians—“you’ll end like your prior captain. Understood?”

“Yes, lord king.” And the man went down in full prostration. Uncomfortable, Alexander started to object, but Batnoam shook his head. So did Hephaistion.

“What’s your name?” Alexander asked, because men liked to be known by name.

“Baalis, lord.”

“Lead well and honorably, Captain Baalis.”

Alexander and Hephaistion made fierce love that night, as they often did after a battle. “We have a good story and a new ally in the peninsula,” Alexander said when they were done. “I like him.”

“He saved us, so I like him too.”

“And we have a trade alliance—which you wanted.”

“Yes. There is that.”

They slept then.

Returning the way they’d come, Alexander had lunch with Parmenion in the main palace gardens under a pair of palms. It was hot; slaves fanned them with palm branches. “A hundred talents I’m to send to this Canaanite backwater, to build it up for trade?” Parmenion asked.

“It’s positioned well, on the King’s Road. We’ll make three times that, maybe four, dispensing with middle-men outside the Phoenicians.”

Parmenion snorted. “You sound like Philip: ‘Trade will make us great! Control the northern shipping lanes out of Byzantion and the Black Sea!’ That didn’t go so well.”

Alexander tapped his lips with a thumb. “He was right, even if it ended badly. This is different. The Qurayshai Arabs _want_ this contract, as do the Sidonians. It benefits everyone.”

Another day, and they reached Sidon at summer sunset.

And there in the harbor, proud and beautiful against the glittering waters reflecting the dying light, was Alexander’s fleet of two-hundred and twenty-three ships. They ranged from the long, lean, fast-racing Phoenician battleships, to slower galleys and a few barges. These slower boats Alexander would have outfitted with battering rams.

The night before they were to sail, he lay in bed with Hephaistion. “You ready to come south?”

“Been ready. You named my successor tonight.”

“You’re okay with that?”

“Like I want to stay garrison commander in Sidon while you’re off galivanting on adventures? You need me to guard you.”

“I just wanted to be sure.”

“I’m done here. I like the people, but I’m done. I need to be with you.”

“And I need you with me, _agapet_ _ē_.”

They stopped talking after that, or at least, they stopped trying to be coherent. Alexander’s mouth was full in any case.

The king was up before the sun, a tickling excitement thrumming all through him. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” he said, half pulling Hephaistion out of bed by one ankle.

“Zeus witness! Stop that.” Hephaistion kicked back and Alexander let him go. But when he took too long getting dressed, Alexander left him to head down to the port on horseback.

On the upper stone quay, he halted, admiring.

 _His_ navy. At long last, he had a navy worthy of pride. They were majestic, arrayed in lines at dock or anchor. There were so many, the docks couldn’t accommodate them all. Some had been pulled up on the outer shores overnight, but they were back on the sea now, ready to go, like Agamemnon’s fleet before they’d set sail for Troy.

He rode down to the seaside wharf, seeking Krateros.

A week ago, he’d returned Perdikkas to Tyre even before he’d rode inland, to convey his plans to Philotas. And just the day before, Krateros—done with his own inland perambulations—had arrived in Sidon with the most recent siege news. It amounted to “status quo.” The Tyrians were doing nothing different, apparently unaware of what was occurring just up the coast. As Alexander had hoped.

“Where’s your shadow?” Krateros asked in greeting. It wasn’t sarcastic, just inquisitive.

Alexander didn’t want to admit, “He’s slow,” so said, “He was here for months. He’s finishing up last-minute issues. He’ll be down shortly.”

Krateros nodded, accepting that at face value. He was as ruddy as Alexander, so, at the moment, they sported twin sunburns on nose and cheeks. Also like Alexander, he wasn’t especially tall, but even broader in the shoulders, with a short neck, giving him a bearish look. Yet his brown eyes were clever and assessing.

“I want to inspect the navy,” Alexander told him. “I’ll see you at the sacrifices.”

Swinging back up onto Boukephalas, he rode along the warf, waving to the sailors from different lands who manned his ships. They waved back and shouted his name.

His flagship was docked in the middle: a beautiful quinquireme with a bronze ram below painted eyes and a carved Nike—Victory—on the prow. At harbor, its sails were down, but the mast flew a great white flag, easy to see at a distance. On it, dyed bright yellow and outlined by black, was the Macedonian starburst. Just below flew a second flag with a red octopus.

Alexander laughed to see it. So Hephaistion had made a standard for himself, not just put one on his shield? When Hephaistion showed up finally, walking, not riding—where was his horse?—Alexander tried to be stern. “Who gave you permission to put your standard on _my_ flagship?”

Hephaistion knew him too well and flipped him off. “The man who got you that fleet gave me permission,” he replied.

His reply made Alexander laugh. “Well, the king thinks it about time that you took a little credit for things.”

“Generous of him.”

“Where’s your horse?”

“Being loaded. Yours needs to be, as well. Get down and stop parading around like you think you’re Poseidon.”

Alexander did so. “Speaking of Poseidon, we need to make sacrifices to him, the Four Winds, and Thetis before we board. Herakles-Melquart, too.”

“We can use all the help we can get, mortal or divine. The gods always did love you.”

“I’m generous to them.”

While the sailors finished their final tasks, Alexander gathered his ranking officers to perform the necessary actions, giving Poseidon a prize racer Abdalonymos had gifted him. Herakles and the other gods got three handsome oxen, all pushed into the sea so the water churned red, drawing predators to take the sacrifice.

Turning to Abdalonymos, Alexander gripped his hands. “I may not see you again in this lifetime. After we take Tyre, I’m headed south to Egypt. I wish you health and success, and the wisdom of Zeus to rule fairly.” Hephaistion had been saying goodbye to his old hosts, and now turned to embrace the king.

“I’ll miss you, Old Man. But at least maybe I’ll keep more money, not playing you in draughts.”

Abdalonymos’s dark eyes were a little red as he kissed both Hephaistion’s cheeks, gripping his shoulders. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

“You’re welcome. Remember me.”

“You’re a hard one to forget, Hephaistion of Macedon.”

Smiling, Alexander stood back to watch Hephaistion’s charm at work again.

Finally, they turned to board the quinquireme. “Your mount is in the hold, lord,” the captain said.

“Thank you. How long till we reach Tyre?”

“I’ll know better when I can truly test the wind, but I expect we’ll be in sight of it by noon.”

“Excellent.”

Just a little more time, and they were off, his ship leading the rest out of the harbor.

The winds were just about perfect for sailing, driving the fleet south in good time. Alexander spent the trip in the prow. As they neared Tyrian-controlled waters, Hephaistion joined him, eyes sweeping the horizon. “Nobody’s waiting for us?” He sounded surprised.

“Krateros said they don’t seem to have gotten word.”

“Good. I tried to keep it quiet, but you never know.”

“Well, they’re about to find out.”

Turning, he gestured to the captain, who approached. “When we come in sight of the island, the fleet will perform the maneuver?”

“Yes, sir.”

Alexander nodded and turned back to the sea running deep blue around them, broken here and there by little curls of foam at a wave crest.

“What maneuver?” Hephaistion asked.

Alexander didn’t reply, just smiled.

“You and your goddamn surprises.”

“I think you’ll like this one.”

And there—there is was, appearing out of the hazy blue where sea met sky, just the upper turrets of the highest towers. Then more and more emerged until Alexander could see all the Tyrian defenses, as well as his own mole in the distance, two new mobile towers at the end. But they wouldn’t be staying there long; they’d served their purpose: distraction.

The captain touched Alexander’s shoulder. “Now, sir?”

“A little closer. We’re first on the end, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

They moved further in, enough for Alexander to be able to pick out tiny men on the tops of the walls of Tyre. Those men would now be able to discern the Macedonian starburst at his mast and know the ship on the horizon wasn’t one of theirs, or Carthage’s.

“Now, captain.”

The man turned and sprinted back along the length of the quinquireme, shouting in his own tongue to the men on the boat just to port. The king’s flagship slowed, then made station. The next boat in line pulled up alongside them, but not so close as to tangle oars. Then a third beyond that, and a fourth, a fifth, a sixth.

Gradually, the entire fleet held the line, with another line behind them, boats offset, and more lines behind these. Thus, what had appeared to be just a few boats were revealed to Tyre as a black mass on the water, a full-scale navy. A few of the Tyrian vessels circling the island broke away to come closer. Alexander could see the sailors on them pointing and calling out to each other. Then two turned and fled back to one of the protected harbors.

“I think we got their attention,” Alexander remarked casually.

Beside him, Hephaistion broke up laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest thing I’ve written to date; part 3 got away from me, but it was sorta fun to write “Alexander outside his natural element.”
> 
> Arrian and Curtius suggest Alexander made the alliances that got him his ships, but travel would have needed time, so way back in “Making Amends,” I had him assign that job to Hephaistion.
> 
> The reference to giving Alexander an apple comes from the end of the short story, “A Matter of Apples.” If there might be a slight allusion here to Genesis, well….
> 
> For a lot of the details, it’s the usual “Google is my friend,” but the Iranian “On my eye” thing is a real gesture that was explained to me by a co-worker. I don’t know if the ancient Persians had the same gesture but things like that stick around, so maybe. While it’s reported that Alexander went to raid Arabia while waiting for his boats, that’s sorta vague. Arabia would have been quite a ride, so I’m guessing it was just, “He was off Doing Things in Desert-y Places.”
> 
> I’ve met a few camels and hate them, so my opinion might have bled into Alexander’s. Then again, horses scare the bejesus out of me too, so. They’re damn big. I’ve been on a horse once in my life, and that was one time too many.
> 
> The State of the Apollo_Xandos and future stories:  
> I'm crazy busy at present. I have one more idea for a piece related to Dancing with the Lion, but it'll have to wait. I'm going to take a little break for a while. Somebody else write me some A/H, especially if it's Smart Hephaistion. Happy Holidays to everyone.


End file.
